


Doug Flutie Can Buy His Clothes off the Rack

by Fantasyenabler



Category: Grimm
Genre: Drama, Foul Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Threat of Gang Rape by OCs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasyenabler/pseuds/Fantasyenabler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is not short; he's average height, people.  He just chose a profession where he's maybe a little more undersized than average.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aren't You a Little Short for a Stormtrooper?

**Author's Note:**

> Not too long ago, I saw an online discussion about how Nick is not actually short; it’s just not normal that Hank, Renard, and Monroe are all tall enough to play professional football. Then I saw this commercial where legendary quarterback Doug Flutie yells out, “At five-ten, I‘m average height in America, people,” just before admitting that he was “undersized” for his position.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhxpLK8E9HQ
> 
> Add in the fact that I also saw an interview where David Giuntoli admitted to having never seen any of the Star Wars movies until Sam Witwer sat him down and made him watch them, and voila, you have this fic.
> 
> Whew. :)
> 
> Warnings: Possible canon violations because RL has kept me from watching the latest episode. Also, explicit sex, threats of gang rape from OCs, plus foul language because all of the cops I hang out with in RL are not shy people and neither are the people they arrest.
> 
> Additional note: This fic is complete--it actually has always been complete--but I've come to accept that I never added Ch. 4 because Ch. 3 has always been where this story should end.

Over the years, Nick’s become aware that he didn’t have the most normal childhood. (See: “Dead parents; raised by often-disappearing aunt” for more details.) He’s also become used to the fact that his lack of normal could sometimes make itself evident in the strangest ways and at the strangest times.

That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s ready with a response when one of his fellow cadets decides to give him a hard time during one of their physical training sessions at the police academy. A hard time that occurs right after a couple of the class jerks yell out, “Watch out for the uber-dyke, man. She’s a stone cold bitch.” 

The former volleyball player sneers at the passing cadets. Then she promptly steps over, Judo-flips Nick onto the gym mat, throws her long brown braid over her shoulder, and taunts, “Aren’t you a little short for a storm trooper?”

Um, what? he asks the tiny birdies circling his head. He didn’t quite get that…

“I said,” the female cadet snarls, confirming Nick’s suspicion that he might have said that to more than the tiny birdies, “aren’t you a little short for a storm trooper?” 

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Nick says, as he tries to push himself upright. “I’m not applying to be a state trooper.” Slowly, he manages to pull up his knees and rest his still-ringing head upon them. “And even if I were, five foot ten isn’t too short. It’s average.”

The cadet squints down at him as if she’s trying to spot the pieces of brain leaking out of his ears. “You have got to be fucking with me,” she says. “Because one, I did not flip you that hard. And two, there is no way I’m working with someone who has never seen Star Wars.” 

Nick very carefully raises his right hand. “I swear,” he says, “I’m not fucking with you. I really don’t understand why you said what you did.” Then he thinks about it and winces. “Okay, maybe it’s more like I don’t understand what you said, but I think I get why you said it. Probably for the same reason those jerks have been offering to take me target shooting out on the ‘kiddie range.’”

She frowns, just before she glances over her shoulder at where their fellow cadets are still working in their assigned sparring groups. “So. They’ve been giving you a hard time too?” she asks, squinting down at him once again.

Nick shakes his head. “Not as bad as they’ve been giving you,” he says, rubbing at the back of his skull and closing his eyes. “But yeah, it’s been pointed out to me a time or two that I’m sort of undersized for what we’re doing here.”

The mat vibrates for a second, and when Nick opens his eyes, the female cadet is sitting next to him. “I’ve never been undersized,” she says, and Nick can’t help but notice that even though she’s no longer standing, she’s still looking down at him. “I’ve always been oversized. For everything.” She stares up at the wall that bears the same Portland PD logo that’s painted on all of the cruiser doors. “I just thought that here…it‘d be a good thing.”

Nick leans over and bumps her arm with his shoulder. “It still can be. Not all of our classmates are assholes,” he says. “And believe it or not, a friend of mine who’s already on the force told me it’s usually the guys like that--the ones who feel like they have to mouth off to be noticed--who wash out long before the class even gets close to graduation.”

She stares at him, and Nick can almost hear the words, Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, as clearly as if she’s saying them. “Really?” she asks.

“Really,” he says, standing up and backing a step away. “Now, come on. We’re supposed to be practicing our unarmed techniques here.” He bounces a little on the balls of his feet, feeling the mat spring a bit underneath them. “And the last time I looked, I was down one-nothing. So, you’ve got to give me a chance to get even.”

She jumps up and away, already starting to circle, but she’s smiling as she does so. “Who says I have to give you anything?” she asks, long body pivoting. “You want it--you’ve gotta earn it. Same as anybody else.”

He grins, even as he begins to suspect he’s about to get thrown again. “That sounds fair,” he says, as he fumbles to remember an effective counter.

He fumbles a little too late, and a second later, he’s on the mat once more. 

He finds that he doesn’t mind it quite so much this time though. He knows that he’ll have time to pay her back later. Because he also knows that both of them are going to make it through this, all the way to the very end.

 

 

It’s years later when he hears the quote again, that line from a movie he still hasn’t managed to watch. Only this time it doesn’t come from a fellow cadet who’s trying to flip him over in sparring practice. It comes from a trio of Schakale lurking in the alley just off of Rosalee‘s apothecary, all of whom are currently trying their best to rip his throat out, like any good jackal-man would do.

At least that’s what he’s hoping they want. Some of the comments from the tallest member of their group have left him a little unsure.

“Heh,” the shortest one says, as Nick dodges another blow from the middle one, or as Nick is now thinking of him, the one who likes to quote Star Wars while literally back-alley fighting. “That’s a good one, Darryl. Who knew that Grimms came in ’Fun-Size’? Just like a bag of little Hershey bars.”

Nick takes advantage of the short one’s distraction--short being a relative term since all three of them are big enough to play linebacker for Oregon State--to charge him and knock him on his ass. “Who knew Schakale came in so many variations of ugly and stupid?” Nick asks. “I’d say, ‘me.’ But my Aunt Marie taught me that lying was wrong.”

The middle one tries to grab him by the upper arm, only to end up off balance as Nick drops below his line of attack. “Your aunt was an ugly bitch,” he says, as he takes another wild swing at Nick. “If we’d ever gotten our hands on her, I can tell you that fucking that cunt would have been the last thing on our minds.”

A looming sense of presence tells Nick that the tallest one has decided to stop standing on the sidelines and finally join the fight. “You, on the other hand,” the tallest one says, as he strikes a blow meant for Nick’s lower back that Nick manages to take on his upper thigh instead. “You’re definitely a pretty little thing. I think we could have a good time with you, once we beat some of the fight out of your little, bitty body.”

Nick shudders, even as he lowers his shoulder and drives it into the tallest one’s lower abdomen. “I think I’ll pass,” he says. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but none of you three are really what I’m looking for in a man.”

The middle one snickers. “Oh, but a Blutbad is?” he asks, as he tries to grab Nick again, a move Nick evades simply by leaning back and stepping off the center line of the other man’s attack. “You know you stink of him, right? We could smell his claim on you long before you even stepped into the alley.”

The tallest one is still slowly getting back to his feet, but Nick can see him grinning as Nick continue to dodge the middle one. “Yeah,” the tall one says, “that was quite the interesting surprise. We’d heard that you were dating one, but we figured that was a false rumor, just like the one about you being the Grimm that killed our cousins.” The tallest one snorts as the middle one gets close, and it’s only by virtue of Nick ducking away and letting him hit the brick wall behind Nick’s back that he’s able to get away. 

The middle Schakale growls as he hits brick instead of flesh, which earns a laugh from the tallest one, just before he starts talking again. “Yeah, you really shouldn’t have let everyone know the truth about that. We might have thought twice about taking you on then. As it is, you’re really not all that intimidating.”

There’s a rustling behind him, and Nick rolls just before the shortest one comes kicking through the space where Nick used to be. The Schakale’s gasping a bit, and Nick gets the feeling that he’s not taking this as casually as his biggest brother seems to be. “Could you two just shut up and take him out already?” he asks. “You’re letting this take way too long.”

The middle one, still growling, shakes his aching hand and agrees. “Yeah,” he says, “I think you’re right. Let’s get him knocked out and back to the van already.”

Nick’s back on his feet, the brush of air on his neck telling him that the alley opening is right behind him, and all he has to do is turn and run away. But now that they’ve finally mentioned the van, he finds he can’t quite leave just yet. “Your van?” he asks. “That wouldn’t happen to be where you’re keeping the drugs you’ve been stealing from small pharmacies, would it? Or maybe where you hid the bodies of that pharmacist and her pharm. tech. that you killed?” 

The middle one growls again. “That was an accident,” he says. “The store was supposed to be closed already. Who knew they were willing to stay open for one little old lady?”

Nick shakes his head, letting the anger he’d felt at the crime scene wash over him again. “Pretty much everyone in the residential neighborhood they served,” he says. “You would have too, if you’d actually bother to case the place instead of just charging right in.”

“Shut up,” says the tallest one, and now Nick can’t help but notice that all three of them look angry. Nobody’s treating this like a joke anymore. “Larry and Darryl are right. It’s time for us to stop playing with you. We’re going to beat you until you can’t get up anymore. And then…well, then I guess we’re just going to have to show you how we treat pretty little bitches like you back home.”

The middle one laughs, a short bark with very little humor in it. “Yeah,” he says, flexing his bruised hand. “That sounds like a great plan to me.”

Nick smirks, faking more confidence than he’s actually feeling right now. “I’m sure it does,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to take a pass.” 

And by pass, he means, run, which he really doesn’t want to do, doesn’t want to take the chance that if he lets them go, they’ll either kill another pharmacist, or possibly even come back for Rosalee. But he’s not sure what other option he has here. They caught him without any weapons on him, and he’s only managed to survive thus far because they haven’t been working together. If they decide to start functioning as a team…

The sound of multiple sirens makes his decision easier for him. “Time to give up, boys,” he says. “They’ll have guns, lots of them from the sound of it. And they’re not about to let you get away, not after what you three have done.” 

The tallest one glances over his shoulder at the chain link fence blocking the other end of the alley way. “We can make it over that--” he starts to say.

Only to stop when a cruiser pulls up right behind it and two uniforms pop out, duty weapons in hand. “Freeze!” the first one yells. “All of you, hands up where I can see them.”

The three Schakale shuffle in place, and Nick can see them thinking about whether or not they can take out Nick and the two uniforms before anyone else shows up.

Then the point becomes moot as another three cruisers show up, one parking just behind the first one, the other two blocking off the open end of the alley behind Nick’s back.

“Freeze!” one of the newcomers yells, and this time, the Schakale do, slowly holding up their hands even as Nick does the same.

“I’m a cop,” he says as the uniforms close in, “and these three are the perps behind the pharmacy robberies. They’ve got a van around here somewhere, and once you find it, you should find all of the evidence we need to tie them to the crimes.”

The lead uniform, a young black guy, nods, as his partner gets on the radio. “We’ll check that out,” he says. “In the meantime, can I see your badge?”

“Sure,” he says, as the youngster leans over him to get a better look. He’s big, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall. Which, Nick thinks, probably puts him in the same weight class as Hank, Monroe, the Captain…Hell, just about every other guy Nick seems to know these days.

When did this become his life? he thinks, as he lowers his badge and starts to fill the newcomers in on the details. That he spends so much time with people who naturally tower over him? It’s not something that bothers him when he’s fighting--the jibes bounce off of him then--but when he’s just standing here, being still, doing nothing more than having a conversation with someone, he can’t help but notice it--

He is sort of short for a stormtrooper.

Whatever the Hell a stormtrooper’s supposed to be.


	2. Goldilocks could tell you: "Just right" is a relative term

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are meant to fit together, no matter how mis-matched they might seem.

The next few weeks pass, and Nick can honestly say he doesn't get much of a chance to think any further on his "alleyway realizations." Instead, he's forced to think about too many other things, things that all have their own way of demanding his immediate attention.

Case in point: somehow getting poisoned while taking down a Hexenbiest. A Hexenbiest that acts like she really doesn’t want him dead, but just wants him to suffer for a while. 

So he isn’t surprised when the pounding headache and nausea arrive. He also isn’t impressed, since the resulting pains are irritating, but nothing he can’t ultimately keep at bay with a handful of Tylenol and some doses of Pepto-Bismol.

Now however, the poison is kicking things up a notch. Moving right past symptoms you could get with a really bad case of the flu and more into the kind of pain that leaves even hardcore masochists begging for a shot of morphine. His insides feel like someone is reaching through his skin and slowly but surely ripping them apart. And after more than a hour of this, he’s beginning to wish the mattress beneath him would just open up and swallow him, putting him out of his and everyone else’s misery.

Given everything he’s learned about, it wouldn’t be that weird of a thing to happen, would it? Surely, someone somewhere has come up with the spell.

He’ll have to ask Rosalee about it, he decides. She’s not that far away, just on the other side of the door of his and Monroe’s bedroom, talking to Hank and Monroe in a voice Nick can’t quite hear. 

Talking to Hank and Monroe about possibly taking him to the hospital, he’s guessing. Where the doctors most likely won’t be able to do anything for him, other than drug him into something approaching unconsciousness. Which sounds absolutely great to Nick right now. Especially if he can somehow make himself forget that Hank and Monroe would be forced to come up with some type of story about how he got this way in the first place, as well as how they can’t trust hospital security to keep him safe in the meantime.

He’s become much more of a thorn in the side since Oleg Stark beat the crap out of him over a year ago. The various assassins he’s had to contend with lately have been proof of that.

So…hospital’s probably not a great idea. More than likely if they go that route, someone’s going to end up dead. And knowing Nick’s luck, it won’t be him. 

That means he’s going to have to just stay here and suffer. Suffer and sweat and hope no one thinks too badly of him if he begins to give in to the less than manly urge to whimper.

Maybe Rosalee has a recipe for something that works like Morphine. 

If she doesn’t, he’ll be more than willing to be her guinea pig as she tries to work it out. Anything would be better than what’s happening to him right now.

Absolutely anything.

 

On the other side of the door, the voices Nick can’t quite hear are tense and concerned. And in Monroe’s case, more than a little angry. An anger he’s doing his very best not to take out on poor Hank, who’s starting to sound a bit aggravated himself.

“Look,” Hank says, cell phone still in hand, thumb poised over the number nine, “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about the headaches, okay? Nick thought he could handle them, and since I only know what he tells me about this Wesen stuff, I didn’t have any reason not to believe him.”

Monroe can’t help shaking his head. “No reason,” he says, as he fights the urge to turn the words into a growl. “Other than you know what an idiot he can be about taking care of himself. You know that when he’s sick, someone else should be keeping an eye on him. And that in this case, I definitely should have been that someone--”

“Okay, fine. I fucked up here.” He throws his hands up, the cell phone wobbling in his palm. “So let me try to make it right. Let me call an ambulance. I can make something up to tell the doctors, easy. All they have to know is that he’s been poisoned. And with all of the weird things we‘ve encountered in the line of duty over the last few months, no one will be too disturbed by the fact that I can‘t even begin to figure out where it came from.”

Hank turns when Rosalee reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look down into her determined face. “They also won’t be able to do anything for him,” she says, flapping the list of items Hank and an almost incoherent Nick managed to put together for her. “Except maybe kill him. Half of the ingredients on this list are known to react badly when exposed to human medicines. So the doctors could give him something as minor as aspirin, and end up wondering why half of his organs suddenly started spontaneously bleeding.”

He frowns as he glances back towards the bedroom door. “All the more reason why you should let me dial 911. Nick’s been taking stuff--”

Hank jumps a bit when Rosalee woges, the appearance of her fox-like features catching him off guard. “I know that,” she says. “I also know that he got lucky. Acetaminophen is fairly safe when it comes to interacting with Wesen potions. It’s everything else the hospital has in stock that frightens me. Especially since we can’t tell them why even the most neutral of chemical compounds could have an adverse effect on him right now.”

They’re both still staring, both still caught up in their momentary frustration with each other, when Monroe hears it, a small sound from the other side of the door. It sounds like someone choking down a cry of pain, and in less than a second, he’s got his hand on the door knob, the bulk of his attention already finished with this conversation.

“Rosalee,” he says, “go to the shop. See what you can do.” She nods, her face abruptly turning human before she starts to step away. “Hank,” he adds, “go with her.” Hank opens his mouth to protest, but Monroe cuts him off with a swipe of his hand. “Seriously, man. Get out of here. I know that this isn’t all your fault. But I’m having a hard time keeping calm here, and it would really help if you were somewhere else right now.”

He doesn’t bother to wait and see how Hank responds, his mind already focused on just opening the door and getting back into that room. He’s barely conscious of how the door closes behind him, or of how quickly he walks over to the bed. Nor of his sliding onto the mattress, or pulling the blankets off of Nick’s shuddering form.

All he is really aware of is the fact that Nick is suffering and there’s almost nothing Monroe can do for him. Nothing except wrap Nick up into his arms and curl him up against his chest, so that he can feel Nick’s heart beat through his sweat-soaked t-shirt and press Nick’s tear-stained face carefully into the side of Monroe’s uncovered neck. Nothing except take note of the slight sigh that runs through Nick’s body and wrap his arms even tighter when he feels Nick’s hands and fingers clutching at him in return. 

The end result is the two of them holding onto each other as if any little space between them could end up spelling their doom, Nick curled tightly into Monroe’s lap, while Monroe’s back and shoulders lean against the wooden headboard. It’s a position they’ve sort of been in many times over the last few months, as they’ve pressed naked skin against naked skin and shared sweaty kisses, while Nick teased Monroe to the point of flipping them both over, by refusing to do anything other than slowly riding his cock. This time though, it’s different, as Monroe shifts and stretches in an attempt to cuddle Nick closer. This time, it feels like he’s trying to pull his lover inside of him, to take advantage of the size difference between them so that he can shield him rather than manhandle him, to protect him instead of possess him. 

And it feels like he’s failing rather spectacularly. 

Not just feels. He knows that he’s failing. As every shudder, gasp, and small cry tells him how badly the painful poison is still burning Nick up inside.

Yet, in spite of this, Monroe won’t let go. If this is all he can do, he’ll do it, no matter how ineffectual or powerless it ends up making him. 

He absolutely refuses to let Nick go.

So as he rubs careful fingertip circles across Nick’s back, he presses his lips against the side of Nick’s face and whispers, “You better not be thinking about going anywhere, Nick. Because anywhere you’re going, I’m going with you.”

He whispers again as he thinks he sees Nick’s eyes flicker open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, this time focusing his attention on that small slip of blue-grey, on the flutter of long, dark lashes. “Did you hear me? You’re not going anywhere.”

There’s a gust of soft breath against his skin, and seconds later, he feels more than hears the words. “Wasn’t planning on it. Want to stay right here.” Just before Nick curls up tighter in his lap, fitting his body against Monroe’s as easily as if Monroe had been designed especially for Nick to fit this way.

Given everything that’s happened to bring them together, Monroe can’t say he’d be surprised if someone told him that was the case. A natural-born killer who’d decided to reform, all so he could end up crossing paths with a kinder, gentler version of what should have been one of his most vicious enemies.

Maybe somewhere someone did have a design in mind.

And if that was the case, then Monroe has even more of a reason to not let go.


	3. You Must Be at Least This Tall to Ride This Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The minimum requirements for something aren't always what you think they should be.

Time passes quickly when your insides no longer feel like they’re on fire, Nick notices, as he slowly moves around the house, still feeling like his world's gone fuzzy from what Rosalee gave him for the pain nearly three days ago.  In her defense, she did warn him that since she didn't know precisely what the Hexenbiest had used in the poison, she'd focused more on creating an anesthesia rather than an antidote.  He’d also heard her mumble to Monroe that she really hoped that Nick was right about the witch, that she’d just wanted to cause him pain and not any actual long-term damage. 

Thankfully, when he'd awakened the next day, all of his limbs were still attached and the pain had completely disappeared.  Now, he just has to get over "the hangover," as he's chosen to call it.   This fogginess that's clouding all of his reactions and making him feel like everything is happening in slow motion rather than any sort of real time.  He watches the late afternoon sun setting through the windows, as he staggers around and over to the couch, and he can only hope it’s his imagination that the sky seems to be changing colors much faster than he himself is moving.   

The nearest cuckoo clock sounds like it’s ticking at a normal pace at least, its face telling him that it should be another twenty-five minutes or so before Monroe gets back from his errands, his lover having made it a point of telling Nick everywhere he was going and how long he should be gone for.  Nick, in turn, had told Monroe that he didn't need to worry, that he'd manage just fine without him, but somehow he doubts Monroe truly believed him. 

He scared everyone this time around.  

And he doesn't think any of them are likely to forget it anytime soon.

Which means he's got a bit of a problem here.  He needs for people to believe in him, to realize that even though he's not out there killing Wesen left and right, it doesn't mean he's not worthy of being called a Grimm.  He needs them to see that he's serving the purpose Grimms were originally intended for, and that he's not just acting this way because he's smaller and weaker than everyone expects him to be.

He needs someone to believe that he can handle being a true Grimm.

And if the people closest to him don't believe in him...

God, he doesn't even want to think about what that means.

At all.

Of course, now that he's thought it, it's all he can think about.  Which means he needs to get up and find some way to snap out of it, drugged feeling or no drugged feeling.

Maybe he should try going outside?  Get some fresh air and try to clear his head?

Would that be a good idea?

He’s staring out the front window, considering it, when he notices the flash of movement.  It’s not anything obvious, but it’s just enough to get his instincts going.

Someone is stalking around the outside of the house.

And he’s willing to bet any amount of money it’s someone who’s not supposed to be here.

 

The next few minutes unfold in a sort of slow-motion blur that Nick‘s more than willing to blame completely on his “hangover.”  One second, he’s pondering the oddness of tracking an intruder through the side-yard while wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of sleep-pants; the next second, he’s rolling, tumbling bare-feet over muzzy-head, evading the large fist that was obviously intended to do far more than just clip him on the shoulder. 

The owner of that fist pursues him, and as he leans over to grapple with Nick more closely, his grasping hands turn into slashing claws, and the early evening light shades in the outlines of lion-like features.  Nick tries to kick out of the rolling stance, to push his shoulders up and into the mid-point of the Lowen’s body, but his sense of balance is still a bit muddled, so all he manages to accomplish is a semi-controlled fall that takes the Lowen down with him.  This earns Nick a growl, the Lowen’s vicious fangs mere centimeters away from Nick’s face, and before Nick knows it, they’re tumbling in the grass and dirt, each one struggling to be the one on top, until they finally strike the side of the house, and Nick takes advantage of the opportunity to introduce the back of the Lowen’s head to the unyielding surface of an exterior wall.

The Lowen’s stunned for a handful of breaths, and Nick uses that time to get to his feet and grab the Lowen by the collar.  He lashes out, his punches far less precise than he likes them to be, but the close range guarantees that enough of them land in the vicinity of the Lowen’s face to keep him off-balance.  When the Lowen finally does muster the strength to try tackling Nick to the ground again, he misses, giving Nick enough space to step off the line of attack and snap-kick the Lowen in the back of head, pushing him face-first into the grass, and allowing Nick to plant his knees into the Lowen’s back and shoulders, pinning him there.

It’s at that moment that Nick notices that the Lowen didn’t come empty-handed, that in the space off to their right lies an open backpack, with what looks like a digital clock face sticking out of the top of it.

A clock face that Nick quickly realizes probably isn’t there because the Lowen wants to keep a close eye on the time…

“What the Hell?” Nick doesn’t quite yell the question, but it’s a close thing, stopped only because he doesn‘t want to create any more of a neighborhood disturbance than they have already. “I thought you Lowen prided yourselves on being fierce warriors,” he says to the back of the Lowen’s skull, before pulling on the mane and tugging the shaggy head back, so that his next words can be practically snarled into the Lowen’s ear.  “Not the kind of cowards who like to plant bombs in the dark.  So no one can see you when you decide to turn tail and run away.”

The Lowen growls and Nick can feel his legs kicking, as he tries futilely to push Nick off of his back.  “The bomb was not my idea,” the Lowen says, even as he continues struggling.  “I am not a coward.  But I am a soldier, and I will do whatever I’ve been ordered to do.”

“Ordered?  Ordered by who?”  The Lowen shakes his head, and Nick’s done enough interrogations to recognize that as the first sign of someone who’s preparing to be stubborn, so he decides to change his method of attack.  “Whoever they are, they must not think much of you as a fighter, if they gave you a bomb just so you could take out one person.”

“I don’t need a bomb to kill someone like you,” the Lowen spits, body still churning in a desperate quest for some way to throw Nick off-balance.  “The bomb was just to make sure that none of your--”  He sputters as he bucks and Nick is forced to dig his right knee deeper into a major back muscle.  “--your allies were around to come to your aid.  That you fought on your own, like a Grimm is supposed to do.”

_Like a Grimm is supposed to do…_ The words are so close to the thoughts Nick was having earlier that he almost misses the true meaning behind what the Lowen is saying, the real reason he’s brought the bomb. 

Almost, but after a second or two, it hits him.  “The others.”  _Monroe and Rosalee and Hank,_ he thinks.  “The bomb wasn’t meant to take me out.  You were going to set it for a time designed to take out _them_.”       

“Yes.” The Lowen smirks, so caught up in whatever expression he’s seeing on Nick’s face that he’s finally stopped struggling.  “That was the plan.  Given the frequency with which you all gather here, I felt fairly certain I could kill at least two of them.”  The smirk deepens, as he and Nick lock eyes, enabling Nick to see the moment the Lowen reads him, reads him enough to grin. “And possibly even all three,” he adds, those last words full of a thrum that can only be a contented purr.

It’s the purr that does it, Nick decides, even more than the grin.  Because before he knows it, he’s slamming the Lowen’s face into the ground, once, twice, three times.  Giving into impulses he normally represses, allowing the wave of emotions inside him to overwhelm him, so that they’ll drown out the horrible, half-formed thoughts pulled forth by the Lowen’s words.

Thoughts of how being a Grimm has already cost him one possible “Happily Ever After,” forcing him to watch as Juliette packed her bags and left.  Of how his working to hold onto his new happiness hasn’t made it safe, and that there’s never been anything preventing anyone from trying to ruin it as well.

Knowing it’s a possibility isn’t the same as being ready for it to happen though.

No, not by a long shot.

He isn’t ready for this at all.

“Okay,” he says, “you listen to me.”  He pulls the Lowen’s head up, silently congratulating himself for keeping his hands steady, and for keeping his voice level as he starts to speak again.  “I don’t actually care who you’re working for.  I just want you to give them a message, one that they should feel free to spread around.”  He tugs on the Lowen’s mane, slowly shaking the other man’s head as he does so.  “I am sick of this.  I am sick of Wesen royalty and Wesen societies and just plain Wesen thinking they can interfere in my life, just because I’m not the bogey man you’ve all come to expect and fear.  I am not an experiment, not some new species you all have to poke and play with, just so you can see what I might do next.”  He pulls on the Lowen’s head, staring right into the blood covered face.  “I am a Grimm.  And if you think I don’t have it in me to be even worse than my ancestors, then by all means…keep doing what you’re doing.  Keep trying to hurt the people I love.  Because I promise that the day you succeed will be the same day you sign your death warrant.  And not just for you.  For anyone and everyone you care about.  Because that’s what you were all expecting from me, right?  That’s why you all fear my kind.” 

He tightens his fingers, shifting the Lowen around so that their eyes lock once more.  “Well, far be it from me not to give people what they expect.  So just keep pushing me, keep coming after the people I love.  And I promise you I’ll show you something.  Something that will make you think that all of my psychopathic ancestors were just a bunch of wannabe amateurs.”

He releases the Lowen’s mane and pushes himself off of the Lowen’s body, the force of his motions driving the Lowen’s face and shoulders back into the ground. 

“Get up,” Nick says, walking over and grabbing the bomb.  “C’mon, get up.  There’s nothing left here for you to do. And if you don’t leave right now… ”  He glances down into the backpack, making sure the bomb isn’t armed, before looking back up and locking eyes with the Lowen again.  “Well, I guess I can just always find someone else to go and deliver my message.”

The Lowen growls at him as he slowly rises, and for a moment, Nick thinks he’s not going to let things go so easily.

Then he shakes himself and spits blood onto the grass at Nick’s feet.  Just before he turns and very quickly staggers away.

This counts as some kind of victory, Nick thinks, as he watches the Lowen disappear into the night.  Even if it just buys them a little bit of peace, it should count.

He certainly doesn’t want to think of this just being the first shot of a much bigger battle.  Because if it is, then he’ll have to admit that he’s not sure what he’s scared more of. 

What he’ll become if he loses.

Or what he’ll become if he wins.

           

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
